


Mission Impossible: Kitchen Edition

by jellybeanforest



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cap-Ironman Bingo, Comedy, Cooking, Date Night, Domesticity, Established Relationship, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 10:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20544692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: Steve has always been the type of guy to jump out of an airplane without a parachute and with only the vaguest idea of what awaited him on the ground. He never let the little things like inexperience and a complete lack of skill derail him before. Why should this endeavor be any different?Or: Steve insists Tony and he cook together on one of their stay-at-home date nights. Tony remains dubious but humors him. It goes about as well as one would expect.For the Cap-IronMan Bingo 2019 Round 2 – Food/Cooking and Mealtimes.





	Mission Impossible: Kitchen Edition

As with many disasters, it starts with an innocuous suggestion.

“It will be fun,” Steve says as he unpacks the grocery bag onto the counter.

Tony can only stare, incredulous at the man’s self-assurance in this endeavor. “How can it possibly be anything other than highly stressful and potentially fatal?”

Steve raises an eyebrow at that. “Fatal? Really?”

“Yes, fatal. Either we bleed out after stabbing each other or ourselves, cause a lethal explosion, or – baring any prior disasters – the end result is poisonous,” Tony lists off, idly tossing an onion in the air and catching it. “These hands were meant to build weapons of mass destruction, Cap. They were not meant to chop onions.”

“They can do both.”

“Ah ha! So, you admit dinner made by me will be weaponizable and hence unfit for human consumption?”

Really, the kitchen had been more of a suggestion, the stove and double oven just for show. Tony conceptualized it’s presence as another unnecessary but always-included room in a proper home, like a parlor room or the shower in a full bathroom located on a floor with no bedrooms. Logically, he knew other people cooked in their kitchens, but other people also didn’t have his bank account or an AI with the entire NYC restaurant guide downloaded, tabulated, and put on a catering rotation so they never ate the same meal twice in a month, unless it was by special request. The point was the kitchen was just for show. No one was meant to actually use the damn thing.

Steve – his gorgeous, wonderfully-optimistic, all-too-stubborn boyfriend – disagrees.

“If you can read and follow directions, you can cook,” Steve posits, opening a drawer containing the cooking utensils that – once again, and Tony cannot stress this enough – were only for show.

“When have you ever known me to be the type to ‘follow directions?’ In fact, when have you ever ‘followed directions,’ Mr. Steve ‘tried-to-enlist-five-times’ Rogers?”

“Here,” he hands Tony a chef knife. “Aim the sharp edge at what you want to be in smaller pieces and get to it. And try not to cut off your fingers.”

“This is a terrible idea,” Tony reiterates, in case the other man somehow didn’t get the message the first time.

“I believe in you, sweetheart,” Steve beams, and hell, how can Tony deny him when he’s looking at him like _that_.

“Alright,” he finally acquiesces. “Your blind confidence in my cooking abilities is gravely misplaced, but we can try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

It goes wrong almost immediately.

“Do you think this is enough pasta?” Steve holds out an entire box worth of spaghetti in one fist.

“Probably not. You eat more than that. And that pot is so large.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he says, spilling three additional boxes into the pot and filling it with water from the tap before placing it on the burner to boil. He sets the timer for eleven minutes, as indicated on the box.

Tony continues chopping the ingredients. He wastes half an onion when he chops off the root first and is unable to get a grip on the rest. Then, the minced garlic comes out chunky and uneven, small bits mixed with large, though he figures that’s good enough. He finally moves onto the basil, slicing and cross-cutting it, but the leaves become almost mushy and bruised under his knife.

“You’re doing so well, Tony,” Steve praises him. “I think we can just add it to the tomatoes and let them stew together, right?”

Tony scrapes his aromatics into the pot containing whole tomatoes fresh from the farmer’s market cut in halves. He reviews the recipe. “Doesn’t this call for canned tomatoes?”

Steve shrugs. “A tomato is a tomato, and these are fresh. I’m sure it will be fine. Probably better even,” he reasons, dialing the stove to high heat then turning to mix and mold the meatballs.

They are both up to their wrists in raw meat when Tony hears the bubble of tell-tale culinary trouble. He turns towards the pasta pot, seeing the rising foam and-

_Is that mountain made entirely of pasta?_

“Um, Steve?” he hazards.

Steve is still deep in concentration, packing the meatballs tight. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think that’s supposed to happen.” By now the water is sputtering and splashing over, sizzling as it hits the flame, threatening to douse it out.

“Dammit!” Steve wields the lid like a shield, protecting himself from cast-off boiling water as he covers the rising pasta and turns off the stove.

Tony sidles in next to him, “Why does it look so… stiff? Does it get better over time?”

And it’s true. The spaghetti, having expanded to overflowing, is still completely undercooked. Tony plucks the box from the counter to review the directions. “I think we were supposed to boil the water first before dumping in the pasta.”

“A minor setback,” Steve states, as he slides the meatballs into the oven and sets the timer. “We can just put the noodles in a bowl, boil some water, and cook half at a time for another five minutes, and it will be okay. I mean, how much bigger can it possibly grow?”

The answer is ‘a lot.’

“It’s overflowing again,” Tony says flatly, as he grabs yet another bowl to once again split the pot in half.

By the time they boil all the pasta, half of which ended up overcooked while they tried to gauge how much additional time was needed, they had filled four full-sized serving platters with spaghetti.

“It’s fine. This is fine,” Steve says, as he places the last bowl on the table. “This way, we’ll have enough for everyone.”

“And you think that’s a good thing?” Tony blurts out, unable to keep quiet on the obvious conclusion of this particular misadventure.

Steve’s mouth thins into a straight line. “And you don’t? There are worst mistakes than making too much food.”

Like mistake #2, which makes itself known post-haste.

Tony scents the air. “Is something burning?”

“The sauce!” Steve rushes back to the stove to pull yet another pot off the burner. He waves his hands over the open top, trying to disperse the smoke, then uses a spatula to scrape the bottom. “I scorched our new pot,” he states, stirring the blackened sauce into the red. “Do you think anyone will be able to tell?”

Tony peers over from behind him. “Well, besides the distinctive taste of charcoal, there’s also the issue of the tomatoes not breaking down like they’re supposed to.” He takes out his Starkphone, flipping through some cooking blogs. “Apparently, tomatoes have to be peeled before being stewed into marinara. The skins just toughen up.” He takes a spoon and pokes at a curled tomato skin skimming the top of the sauce. “See?”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Steve says, using his spatula to maneuver around the skins, trying subtly to break them apart. “Everyone could use a little more fiber in their diets.”

“Steve, J.A.R.V.I.S. has phone numbers for a dozen Italian restaurants that deliver on file. If you have your heart set on spaghetti, I can have it here in twenty-five minutes flat. Fifteen if I tip well, and I tip very generously,” Tony offers him an out. This little experiment was ‘fun’ (or some approximation of the word), but if Steve actually wanted to eat, they had options.

Just then, the timer dings.

“Or we can have dinner right now,” Steve counters, that stubborn streak Tony had previously found so endearing crossing into annoying. “The meatballs are done.”

To Steve’s credit, the meatballs are cooked through, but that is the best thing that can be said about them. Packed much too tightly, they are dry and dense, with the texture and flavor of used hockey pucks.

Steve chews, staring forlornly at his plate of overcooked pasta, burned sauce one can accurately describe as ‘tough,’ and meatballs so rubbery they could probably bounce off concrete.

On the other side of the table, Tony politely moves his utensils around, plodding his dinner from one side of the plate to the other and back in a pantomime of eating, hoping that spreading it out will make it look like he actually ate some of it. His boyfriend might have an iron stomach, but Tony is a mere mortal, possessed of a normal immune system and working taste buds.

“The offer still stands,” he says softly, sneaking a peak at Steve, who finally gives up and discretely spits his mouthful out into a napkin.

“Okay. You’ve made your point.”

“J.A.R.V.I.S., you heard the man,” Tony calls out triumphantly. “I’m thinking Carmine’s.” But his happiness at Steve’s capitulation dies when he sees the forlorn look on his face.

* * *

Later that night as they lie in bed, Tony rolls onto his side to cradle Steve.

“Hey, you know I don’t care whether you can cook. We can order takeout every day, multiple times a day, and it doesn’t bother me,” he whispers into his shoulder, leaving a kiss there. “That’s how I’m used to living.”

Steve curls into the touch, wrapping himself around the smaller man. “I know… It’s just… I thought it was something we could do together as a couple, a bonding experience, I guess.”

Tony raises his head a bit to look at Steve. “We take down villains together on the regular. That takes plenty of trust and bonding,” he points out.

“That’s different,” Steve sighs. “I just… Look, I don’t have a job aside from the Avengers like you do at SI; I don’t really pay any of our bills, and I thought maybe I could show my appreciation by cooking you something nice. You know, contribute to this relationship off the field.”

“Steve. You contribute plenty. Without you, I’m a neurotic mess. I’m barely human-functional. You keep me grounded.”

“Like dead weight.”

“Like someone with a good head on his shoulders who complements my failings,” Tony corrects him, “and your inability to boil water doesn’t change that.”

“The water boiled just fine. It was the food part I struggled with.”

“So, the next time I want tea, you’ve got me covered.”

Steve strokes Tony’s cheek with gentle fondness. “I love you, you know that?”

“Yeah, and I love you, too,” he rests his forehead against Steve’s shoulder. “Now go to sleep, honey.”

* * *

Tony is up early, waiting for Steve in the kitchen with a carton of eggs and loaf of bread, when the man ambles in, wiping the sweat from his morning run off his brow then swiping behind his neck.

“Tony? What’s this?”

“I’m going to show you how to make the one thing Jarvis taught me to cook as a young man,” he splays out his hands in a revelatory manner. “So… scrambled eggs and toast, a breakfast so pedestrian the name is the recipe, because as he used to say and I quote, ‘a gentleman always cooks breakfast for his dates the morning after.’”

Interested, Steve steps in next to Tony, who places two slices of toast in the toaster then cracks two eggs into a bowl, scrambling them up and adding a splash of milk and sprinkle of salt, while narrating his motions. The toast pops, and he lightly scrapes off a touch of black, before turning back to the eggs.

“And then we put the entire bowl into the microwave, being sure to remove the fork, set it for forty-five seconds, stir, pop it in again for another forty-five seconds, and we’re done,” Tony finishes with a flourish. “Scrambled eggs and toast.” He pushes the plate towards Steve to try.

Steve takes a bite, his face alighting. “Sweetheart… It’s edible.”

“High praise.” Tony bites his lip to keep from smiling.

“Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll make you some as well?” Steve suggests, putting his plate down on his place setting across from Tony then setting out to replicate the meal in the kitchen.

Three minutes later, Steve brings Tony his plate. The eggs are a little overdone and undersalted, and the toast burnt and whittled down to a crispy wafer, but he eats it without complaint, Steve’s satisfaction all the seasoning he needs.

“How is it?” Steve asks, watching Tony for any hint of rejection.

Tony takes a sip of coffee, clearing the dry toast crumbs from his throat.

“Delicious.”


End file.
